


Tone

by electricblueninja



Series: Rise [2]
Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: M/M, The Mothership - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> <img/> </p>
  <p>Yunho might live to regret his lack of self-control.</p>
  <p>On the other hand, he might not. </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Even setting aside the fact that he had had to get someone in to redo the felt on the pool table, Yunho was not sure that the thing with Changmin had been a good idea.

 

 

He had known from the minute he walked in that the tall stranger was a military man. He might dress up nice, in his suit and tie, but the posture, the air of self-assurance, and the precision of his movements were all unmistakeable hallmarks of a military background. This, to be sure, was not unusual in Korea, where all men over a certain age had received a modicum of military training, had a very good reason not to have done so, or had spent a spell in prison. But still, it was training that some took to better than others. Some people just went through the motions: learned to move their bodies the way they were expected to; performed the role and their duties without ever really understanding what it meant, or what the training was for.

 

 

Not this man.

 

 

There was a look in his eyes that Yunho recognised.

 

 

It was the look of a man who had seen death, and knew what it meant to inflict pain on another person. The look of someone who separated himself from his body, and therefore occupied it differently: used it as a tool and a weapon more than a vehicle for his ego. The clinical expression of a man who could and would do what he had to, if it was in his mission statement, without letting himself or anyone else get in the way.

 

 

It was in the way he moved across the room, and the way he positioned himself at the bar, so that even with his back to the rest of the space, he could still see and hear everything that happened around him.

 

 

It was also in the way his shirtfront had to stretch to accommodate an extremely muscular torso, and honestly, although Yunho knew he was well within his role as a bartender to start talking to anyone who came up and sat at the bar, the washboard under his shirt had given him some mightily inappropriate ulterior motives, because that impulsive side he’d never quite learned to manage properly instantly wondered what it would be like to have sex with him.

 

 

Well, he knew the answer now: extremely satisfying, despite an apparent lack of experience and a touch too much enthusiasm. Not quite the quick fuck he’d envisaged, either. Once Changmin—for that was his name, though common enough that it might be fake—had come through (so to speak) his nerves and gotten into it, he had really, really been into it. The way he had looked at Yunho when Yunho jerked himself off had been with the kind of awed silence that Yunho generally associated with the faithful when they made their devotions—only sweatier.

 

 

It was flattering, really, and his lack of experience or confidence, whichever it was, was endearing. He’d been horrified and uncomfortable after he’d hurt Yunho, trying to go too quickly, which led Yunho to assume that this was another mark of sexual inexperience.

 

 

He might be a large and powerful man, but Yunho suspected that Changmin had never been on the receiving end of a dick, or he definitely wouldn’t have tried to put all _that_ in in one go.

 

 

Anyway, he had been appropriately apologetic, and very good once he’d settled down.

 

 

But the fact that it had been gratifying and altogether a very pleasant experience did not make it _smart_.

 

 

Yunho couldn’t pretend ignorance. He knew exactly what had come over him. It had been lust, plain and simple, and there was no point making excuses; least of all to himself.

 

 

There hadn’t been anything inherently wrong about it. Yunho had no qualms about the nature or the brevity of the union. He did feel a tiny bit bad about making the joke about billing Changmin for the felt. He had no intention of doing that. He wouldn’t’ve, even if he had been strapped for cash, which was patently not the case. The bar did good business, and, more to the point, Yunho had initiated their…engagement. He certainly wasn’t going to charge for it. He’d only meant it as a joke. But Changmin’s reaction had been surprisingly heated.

 

 

He’d thrown down a business card and strode out in an attempt to seem dispassionate and nonchalant, but he had not been able to leave fast enough to hide the red that flooded his face, painted in a high stripe across his cheekbones.

 

 

Yunho had been genuinely puzzled by that last moment ever since. It kept replaying in his head, springing to mind unbidden at random moments for the following weeks.

 

 

Changmin did not return, which was unsurprising, given his line of work.

 

 

Yunho was uncertain of the particulars, but he wasn’t stupid. It was clear enough that while Changmin might not be a violent man by nature, he was by profession. Whatever he had done, Choi Siwon’s ‘accident’ had been on purpose. He knew that Changmin had no doubt acted under instruction, and not on Yunho’s behalf, but the coincidental timing did leave Yunho with just the faintest hint of appreciation. Choi Siwon had patronised the bar on more than one occasion, and had started showing signs of general unpleasantness which Yunho had been forced to accept he would not have the opportunity to respond to in the ways he would have preferred. So it was really rather nice that the accident had followed on so promptly from his obstreperous outburst.

 

 

Yunho shook himself.

 

 

He’d been standing here staring into the middle distance tapping Changmin’s name card against the benchtop for long enough—it was three in the morning, it had been a long night, everything was finally disinfected and polished and clean, and it was time to go home and have a shower himself.

 

 

He cast one last glance around the bar, and then switched off the lights, shrugging into his coat in the dark, and collecting the last of the trash to take out with him when he locked up.

 

 

Gwangju city was cold in October.

 

 

Yunho didn’t mind, actually. He liked the colder weather. Screw beaches in Hawaii—as long as there was _ondol_ , he was happy. He liked Gwangju; it was a small, quiet city. The only thing that was brash and arrogant about it was the politicians and their offspring, but they were the same no matter where you were, and Yunho could ignore them for somewhere as beautiful as Gwangju.

 

 

He moved out the back door into the alleyway and slung the rubbish into the bin, then turned back to lock the door. Stuffing the keys into his pocket, he moved down the dimly lit alley towards the street.

 

 

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a motorcycle. The sounds of small animals moving about: rats, maybe, or the cats that hunted them.

 

 

But he changed his gait, because there was not enough of that background soundscape in the streets nearby. Those sounds of natural movement—the blood in the veins of the city—were replaced with false silence.

 

 

Someone was there. 

 

 

He didn’t slow down too much; that would be the same as giving warning.

 

 

Instead of changing pace, he changed the _length_ of his steps, moving slowly along the alley towards the empty expanse of the street. It was lit up like day, but building facades and the overhead arcade cast dark shadows across the pavement.

 

 

His would-be assailant would be hiding around the corner—they always did that. Goons were predictable.

 

 

He pushed the keys on his keychain between his fingers, and moved forward steadily, scanning with every sense for some suggestion of what was lying in wait.

 

 

One of them? Two?

 

 

No—there were at least four figures in wait, as he discovered, and he was not prepared for them.

 

 

The first one went down easily, because Yunho knew what he would try to do, and slammed the side of his hand—the bone—straight into his windpipe before he had even begun to strike.

 

 

In the same moment, he noticed the flicker of movement on his left, and brought his arm up as quickly as he could to block the blow, catching it on the meat of his forearm. It would be an impressive bruise tomorrow, but no major damage, and he leaned into his attacker as they pulled away, knowing full well that they would be off-balance after landing the blow, and there would be no better moment to break their guard.

 

 

Yunho was not a light man, and the assailant, as expected, was not ready to take his weight; they staggered, trying to recover, but the moment they resisted him they were doing him a favour. Leaning against them, Yunho used their body to recover his own balance and propel one of his booted feet backwards—straight into the stomach of the third shadow, who grunted and crumpled, but the fourth shadow came from nowhere, and the blow caught him on the side of the head, and he slipped on the icy cement and went down on his knees, ears ringing. A hand seized him by the hair, jerking his head back, and the world span again, slipping in and out of focus.

 

 

He felt the unmistakeable chill of a knife against his throat, but the voice that spoke was colder still.

 

 

‘Jung Yunho: you know who sent me.’

 

 

 _Shit_ , he thought, _shit._

 

 

And then there was the horrible sensation of his skin parting under the knife, but not so deeply as to achieve anything; a strange sound from behind him; a dead weight, falling against him, and someone was dragging him to his feet, strong hands under his armpits.

 

 

 _God, not another one_ —

 

 

He span, bracing to fight again, but his vision would not cooperate; his balance was shot; he slipped again, and caught himself on the lapels of a tall man with a blurry face that looked remarkably like...

 

 

‘Changmin?’


	2. Chapter 2

 

Yunho stared hard, trying and failing to bring the face before him into focus.

 

 

Maybe he’d been hit harder than he thought.

 

 

Maybe he was concussed, and had started hallucinating. His ears were still ringing, a high-pitched ebb and flow; circular, if sounds could be round, coming and going in an erratic tide. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, and he caved to the unnatural change in his centre of gravity as it tipped him toward the ground.

 

 

The strong hands now gripped his biceps, holding him in place as he wilted against the steady, broad pillar of the other man’s chest.

 

 

‘Changmin,’ he heard himself say again, but it was weird, like his voice was disembodied, and didn’t belong to him.

 

 

He was still slipping, and the big hands helped him to the ground, allowing Yunho to slump into a crouching position instead of simply falling over.

 

 

‘Fuck off,’ said an unmistakeable voice, projected over his head, and Yunho heard the scuttling footsteps of at least two of the attackers getting lost, though the one slumped right beside them was decidedly unconscious.

 

 

He clutched his head, trying to steady himself, and the other man knelt before him, a hulking shadow providing shelter from the streetlight, which was suddenly too bright, and made Yunho feel nauseous.

 

 

‘Are you alright?’ asked the voice, transformed into something soft and gentle.

 

 

Yunho began to rock slightly, to settle his stomach and the swilling of his mind.

 

 

Leery of throwing up on his unexpected companion, he did not think it wise to answer. He was in shock. They always left that out, in movies and stuff—the fakeness of it had always made Yunho laugh. It didn’t matter how often you fought, or how much training you’d had, or how often you got hit: shock was an inevitable part of the process. It got better, with time, but it was inescapable. The human body was a great machine, but it did not deal well with surprises.

 

 

Changmin, showing yet more evidence of a military background, did not demand anything of him. They sat in silence.

 

 

After a little while, Yunho’s guts put themselves back in order, and Changmin’s tie, immediately in his line of sight, became a single black line, instead of a broad, shifting stripe.

 

 

His breathing had returned to normal, and he looked up to see Changmin’s strong face: half-shrouded in shadows, to great effect. Very dramatic.

 

 

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said, hoarsely, trying for a smile, ‘Would you like a pint?’

 

 

Changmin did not return the smile. His brow furrowed, and his nostrils flared slightly as he released a long, slow breath.

 

 

The sight of Changmin’s disapproval made Yunho inexplicably nervous, and he heard himself add another, more genuine question:

 

 

‘What _are_ you doing here?’

 

 

Changmin cleared his throat, and jerked his chin in the direction of the body on the ground. ‘I heard on the grapevine,’ he said, voice still soft, although with a harder edge to it now, ‘that there was trouble in town. Coming your way. And I figured you might end up…held accountable…for Choi Siwon’s little accident.’

 

 

There was a bizarre combination of child and man in his face and bearing: the man, hard and arrogant enough to assume he was responsible for the situation; the child, apologetic and embarrassed.

 

 

Yunho was fairly certain that his assailants had _not_ been Choi family goons. But he didn’t know for sure, and there was nothing he could say at this juncture that wouldn’t make things overly complicated, so he let it go, returning Changmin’s stare in silence. Changmin was putting in a good effort to look cool, but there were distinct undercurrents of things that Yunho didn’t quite understand in the way he was looking at him.

 

 

These entangled expressions were all replaced by a singular look of alarm as Changmin’s gaze dropped to Yunho’s neck.

 

 

‘You’re hurt,’ he said.

 

 

‘Just a nick.’

 

 

But Yunho was beginning to feel light-headed, and when he looked down, it was to see that the bloodstain had travelled unevenly halfway down his shirtfront.

 

 

Changmin reached out, touching his forearm, and Yunho recoiled with a hiss at the pressure on the bruised area. The other man withdrew, watching him carefully.

 

 

‘Arm too?’

 

 

‘Used it to block.’

 

 

‘Block what?’

 

 

‘A bat, probably. Or a truncheon. Didn’t see.’

 

 

‘Do you want to go to hospital?’

 

 

_What kind of a question is that?_

 

 

He shook his head.

 

 

‘No.’

 

 

Changmin nodded, his face concealed by the shadows again, and stood up, holding out his hand for Yunho to take. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, ‘Get you cleaned up.’

 

 

‘Yours or mine?’ Yunho quipped, and then, the joke met with nothing but silence, added: ‘You don’t have to. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.’

 

 

‘Do I have to knock you out and carry you?’ Even with his face concealed by shadow, Yunho knew Changmin was annoyed. More signs of a military background: a strict moral code, and being used to getting his own way. He had formulated his plan of action, and Yunho was upsetting his plan.

 

 

‘Then how would you work out where I live?’ Yunho retorted. But he relented, and reached up, allowing Changmin to help him to his feet. Actually, he should be grateful—no, he _was_ grateful that Changmin had come to his aid. It was just…he hadn’t expected it. It was kind of more surprising than the fact that he’d been attacked.

 

 

_And nearly killed, if he hadn’t come to help you_ , his conscience reminded him tartly, but he shushed it, annoyed.

 

 

‘It’s six blocks east. And thank you,’ he said, quietly.

 

 

Changmin shrugged, his cheeks somehow pinker, even in the dark, and they began walking, stepping over the second attacker out on the pavement.

 

 

Changmin paused over the unconscious man, pulling the balaclava off his head to expose his face and holding him up to the light, shooting Yunho a glance.

 

 

‘Do you recognise him?’

 

 

‘No.’

 

 

Changmin nodded, and dropped him, his head thudding dully on the cement. He stood there for a moment, illuminated, studying the unconscious man’s face. Memorising it, maybe.

 

 

‘Do you want a snapshot?’ he asked, after a moment.

 

 

Yunho shook his head.

 

 

‘No.’

 

 

‘It’ll help to have a photo. If you go to the police.’

 

 

Sensing that Changmin may become insistent or inquisitive if he resisted, Yunho acquiesced. ‘Cops might be more trouble than they’re worth,’ he said, ‘but it’s a good idea.’ He took a quick snapshot of the unconscious man’s face on his phone, and then reached for Changmin’s shoulder, losing his balance again when he tried to straighten.

 

 

This was a blessing in disguise, it turned out. It seemed to divert Changmin’s attention from his scrutiny of the unconscious man’s face.

 

 

He turned to Yunho immediately, concern kindling in his eyes, but was sensible enough not to say anything—just put a steadying hand around Yunho’s torso.

 

 

‘Home, then,’ he said, turning eastwards.

 

 

‘Sorry. Just a bit…’

 

 

‘Let’s get you home.’

 

 

There was no sign of anyone else on the streets for the six blocks back.

 

 

But Yunho was uncomfortably certain that if they knew where he worked, they would also know where he lived.

 

 

_Time to move again, maybe?_ he wondered, but left the thought idle. It was difficult to know if it would be of any use.

 

 

 

They reached the foot of his walk-up without further ado, and he tipped his head in the direction of the building, slowing to a standstill.

 

 

‘This is me.’

 

 

He glanced sidelong at Changmin, whose tongue slipped out between his lips. His hair was scraped back from his face, just like last time, but looking up into the light, he seemed softer. He was definitely refusing to look back—refusing to meet Yunho’s eyes.

 

 

_Are you…nervous?_

 

 

‘Are you going to come in, then?’ Yunho asked, lightly.

 

 

Another nervous lick of the plump lower lip.

 

 

‘Are…I mean…I should come up with you, just in case.’

 

 

Yunho nodded, and started up the stairs. Changmin followed, close behind—not reaching out, but ready, should Yunho fall. Yunho could practically feel Changmin expending support in his direction, without any actual contact between them.

 

 

It was nice, actually.

 

 

Changmin was a good kid. Complicated, but a good kid.

 

 

He slowed at his door, and Changmin reached out to grip his uninjured arm gently, holding him back, and reaching out with his other hand for the keys.

 

 

After a moment’s computation, Yunho understood, and handed them over, pointing to the door.

 

 

Changmin nodded, and tried the handle first.

 

 

Locked.

 

 

Yunho allowed himself to feel just the smallest amount of relief.

 

 

Maybe they didn’t know.

 

 

Maybe it _had_ just been Choi goons.

 

 

Changmin, unlocking the door, gave Yunho a Look over his shoulder that said _Stay there_ , and moved into the apartment: cat-footed, silent.

 

 

A few moments passed, and his silhouette reappeared in the doorframe; Yunho was momentarily blinded when he switched on the light.

 

 

He glanced in over Changmin’s shoulder to see everything in order, and followed him inside, closing the door behind them.

 

 

‘I didn’t have you pegged as the kind of guy for stuffed animals, Yunho,’ said Changmin, in what must have been the first joke he’d ever made in Yunho’s direction.

 

 

The thing was, Yunho _didn’t_ own any stuffed animals.

 

 

The lion in the middle of the couch was chunky and cute and had a long, shaggy, tawny mane.

 

 

And no eyes.

 

 

And he knew exactly what it meant.

 

 

He stared at it, his mouth going dry.

 

 

It stared sightlessly back at him, speaking volumes.

 

 

“ _You’ve seen too much.”_

 

 

In the heavy silence, Changmin fidgeted, and changed colour.

 

 

‘Sorry. A gift from someone important, is it?’

 

 

‘You could say that,’ Yunho rasped out.

 

 

Changmin’s brow furrowed again, and the nervous lip-licking continued.

 

 

‘I’ll…I’ll get you some water,’ he said, awkwardly, making for the galley kitchen that took up one side of the studio room. ‘And…and patch you up a bit. Do you keep a first aid kit?’


	3. Chapter 3

_First aid kit?_

 

 

_Oh._

 

 

_Right._

 

 

_Bleeding._

 

 

‘It’s under the sink,’ Yunho replied, and Changmin nodded acknowledgement without bothering to look back at him.

 

 

‘Go lie down,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Keep your head elevated. Don’t go to sleep.’

 

  
Yunho crossed the room to the couch and picked up the stuffed toy, to study it more closely.

 

 

It was a stupid-looking thing. Slightly beat-up: could easily be mistaken for a well-loved childhood toy by anyone who didn’t _know_ it was a death sentence.

 

 

‘I said lie down, Yunho,’ Changmin repeated, and the sharpness of the order sliced right through the awful sense of doom creeping over him, jerking him back to reality.

 

 

Changmin did not need the aid of eye contact to convey a sense of command. Even crouched in an ungainly fashion in Yunho’s kitchen, his front half hidden by the open doors of the cupboard under the sink, his voice had such a tone of incontrovertibility that Yunho’s first instinct was to do exactly what he said.

 

 

‘At least have a seat,’ he added, in a slightly milder tone.

 

 

Yunho grunted, and, with a flick of the wrist, tossed the lion into a corner of the room.

 

 

He did it casually, and tried to throw his discomfiture with it. Now was not the time to panic. What good would that do? Besides, Changmin was much too perceptive for Yunho to be showing signs of weakness. The last thing he wanted was for Changmin to notice something was awry.

 

 

He began to struggle awkwardly out of his jacket.

 

 

It was a little bit stained across the lapel, on the side of the cut.

 

 

He hadn’t really had the presence of mind to put pressure on the wound, and because it was on his neck, it had bled profusely: his shirt was tie-dyed bright red, the bloodstain covering an entire quarter of the shirtfront.

 

 

He unbuttoned himself and struggled free of the shirt to find the same pattern of staining, slightly fainter, on the white singlet he’d worn underneath. He contemplated removing this, too, but just...ran out of the energy to do so.

 

 

He ended up slumping awkwardly and only half-intentionally on the edge of his couch, clutching his head.

 

 

In his peripheral vision, he could see Changmin emerge from under his sink with the first aid “kit” (just a box full of medical-ish shit, really), which he set down on the bench.

 

 

Then, there was the sound of the kettle boiling.

 

 

The next few minutes passed strangely, for Yunho. But by the time Changmin came over, the box under his arm, a small bowl of what must have been warm water in one hand, and a glass of water in the other, he was able to at least raise his head and say ‘Thank you.’

 

 

Changmin passed him the glass, and knelt before him on the floor. He cast his eyes upwards, studying the cut on Yunho’s throat.

 

 

‘You were lucky.’

 

 

Yunho made a noncommittal noise. It was still only kind of sinking in that he’d be dead already, if not for Changmin.

 

 

Which begged the question— _why_ bother _with the stupid fucking lion thing?_

 

 

Had it been planted before or after the attack?

 

 

If it had been planted before the attack, then really, _why bother_? If the recipient was supposed to be dead already?

 

 

Well, on the other hand…Yunho supposed they must have been prepared for the possibility of his survival. After all, he had gotten away from them before. Being able to do so even once was a pretty good track record for escaping execution.

 

 

While he pondered this issue, Changmin leaned in closer to him, his eyes narrowing with concentration as he studied the knife wound.

 

 

His scent was faint but clear: co-mingling whispers of mint and musk and sweat.

 

 

His lips, pursed in contemplation, were distracting.

 

 

Yunho looked up at the ceiling until Changmin sat back again, nodding his approval and handing Yunho a damp cotton pad.

 

 

‘Pressure on the cut.’

 

 

Yunho flopped back properly against the couch and pressed the warm material to his throat, ignoring the slight sting.

 

 

Changmin rummaged in the box. His hand came out holding scissors, and he reached forward, calm as you like, took hold of the hem of Yunho’s singlet, and began to slice upwards.

 

 

The thin material tore readily under the blade as the cold, smooth, rounded, blunt edge of the scissors travelled up Yunho’s torso.

 

 

An officious snip upon reaching the neckline of the garment, and two quick snips to either side of the shoulders, and Changmin was done, removing the garment with careful efficiency.

 

 

Yunho felt, rather than saw, the younger man make a study of his exposed skin. He himself was busy applying pressure to his neck, his eyes half-closed as his body finally started to purge itself of adrenaline, replaced by fatigue.

 

 

Changmin’s hands touched him lightly in one or two places; checking his ribs.

 

 

When Yunho could summon the energy to do so, he glanced down through his eyelashes at the tall man’s face. His lips were still pursed; his eyes intent. He looked so serious and so deeply focussed that Yunho was dangerously close to smiling—right up until Changmin turned his attention to the forearm he had used to take the impact of the weaponised blow.

 

 

Changmin only touched it gently, he was sure, but the pain that shot through him was overwhelming. He recoiled violently, bunching up in his seat and unleashing a loud, dialect-heavy variation on ‘ _Fuck_.’

 

 

Changmin, to his credit, took this rather well. Despite the fact that Yunho had balled up in response to the pain, and he had only narrowly avoided a knee to the face by catching the joint with his hand, he was still the one to apologise. ‘Sorry—sorry.’

 

 

He placed both hands on Yunho’s knees, gently manipulating Yunho’s body back into a normal seated position, and forced his way into Yunho’s line of sight, waiting patiently for Yunho to meet his gaze before speaking.

 

 

‘I think it’s fractured, Yunho.’

 

 

It took every bit of Yunho’s self-awareness to remember _not_ to nod his head. If he did, he’d start gushing blood from the neck again.

 

 

‘Seems to be,’ he ground out, closing his eyes as the pain receded and trying to unclench his jaw.

 

 

‘Sorry,’ said Changmin again.

 

 

‘Not your fault. You didn’t break it.’

 

 

Changmin shifted uncomfortably, his hands still on Yunho’s thighs. ‘No, but…like I said. This wasn’t supposed to come back to you.’

 

 

When the guilt flickered in Changmin’s eyes, there was a part of Yunho that suddenly, inexplicably, wanted to tell him everything.

 

 

He wasn’t sure why he had this compulsion. Changmin’s apparent conscientiousness and kindness did not mean he should be _trusted_. Yunho had made that mistake before, and it had gotten him nowhere but very close to dead.

 

 

On top of which, Changmin really seemed like a decent guy, but…ex-military was still ex-military, and Yunho just wasn’t sure he could take the risk.

 

 

‘You never know,’ he said lightly, testing the waters, ‘They might’ve come for me, outta my dark past.’

 

 

But Changmin, of course, thought he was joking, and just looked up at Yunho with his grave, slightly mismatched eyes.

 

 

‘Let me have a closer look at the arm,’ he said.

 

 

Grudgingly, Yunho let him.

 

 

It was not a bad fracture. Neither Changmin nor Yunho was a physician, but Changmin seemed pretty confident, and actually rather good with his hands, though it hurt like fuck. After feeling his way along the arm and identifying the damaged area, he said that he thought the fracture was in one of the best possible places to heal naturally, but still insisted on a makeshift splint, which was painful and annoying.

 

 

Not to mention inconvenient.

 

 

‘So much for my shower,’ Yunho muttered.

 

 

‘Not to mention mixing drinks,’ said Changmin. He then flushed scarlet, seeming to realise just how profoundly unhelpful his statement had been.

 

 

He shook his head and tried again. ‘I mean…do you…want…uh…help? With...that? Because…I could…you know…’

 

 

The red had left his face and moved to his ears, which looked like they might start steaming any second.

 

 

Yunho let the silence drag on for a little while before asking, ‘Are you trying to offer me a sponge bath?’

 

 

Changmin immediately tried to break eye contact, but his decision to look downwards meant that he ended up staring at Yunho’s crotch. This, apparently, only increased his embarrassment: the scarlet spread down the sides of his neck.

 

 

Yunho found this puzzling, albeit entertaining.

 

 

It wasn’t like Changmin didn’t know exactly what was down there.

 

 

‘I…uh…I can. I can do that,’ said Changmin, his sentences stilted. ‘It would be easier, right? With your arm…’

 

 

‘I was joking, Changmin. I can wash myself. You can go. I’m sure you have other things to be doing,’ said Yunho.

 

 

It was fun to tease Changmin, but stupid. He shouldn’t have made the sponge bath joke. He shouldn’t make jokes with Changmin, and he wasn’t sure why this wouldn’t sink in. The thing in the bar had been supposed to begin and end there, in the bar. By coming back, Changmin was both figuratively and physically too close. He had to go, so that Yunho could go too.

 

 

 _They’d_ found him, which meant that it was time to leave Gwangju.

 

 

Yet here were these enormous dark eyes, finally finding their way back up to his. Looking into them was unbearable—it was like trying to stare down a Doberman that desperately wanted to be petted. And Yunho _liked_ Dobermans.

 

 

This could definitely turn into a problem. He cursed himself for his shallowness, and his wild libido. That one night stand—that had been…what, a gateway drug? _This is not_ , he reminded himself, a little more aggressively than necessary, _a romance. Stop it._

 

 

Because he _really_ did not need big brown eyes and tender hands and that good smell to surround him right now.

 

 

Changmin interrupted the silence with a tone of mild indignation. ‘I’m not going to leave you by yourself,’ he said, ‘You’d just go to sleep. You can’t go to sleep. You might be concussed.’

 

 

Yunho began to protest, but was silenced by Changmin’s determined shake of the head.

 

 

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m staying. I’m responsible for this. I'll stay until you can get in to see a doctor, alright? And then I'll leave you alone.’

 

 

‘No, really, you aren’t _responsible_. For any of this. Like I said, I know what the world is like. It's not your fault. So...just...’

 

 

‘Shut up,’ said Changmin, ‘and let me help you. For my own peace of mind. Where are the towels?’


	4. Chapter 4

That was apparently as close to a compromise as Changmin was willing to get.

 

 

He did, however, accept Yunho's suggestion that they economise water and effort by sharing the shower. Or rather, that Changmin could stand in the shower, and Yunho could stand with his splint out of the splatter zone of the water, but within sponging range of Changmin. This was easy enough, because Yunho’s flat only had a shower-room style bathroom anyway.

 

 

Changmin turned away and began to undress, hanging the various parts of his suit on the hooks behind the door.

 

 

Yunho was starting to feel stiffer, now. His joints had begun to protest every movement, and he found himself struggling with his pants.

 

 

Changmin, who had undressed at lightning speed, stepped in to help him, stripping his pants and underwear off with a reasonably good effort at being quick and impersonal about it, before turning away to turn on the taps and test the water till it met his satisfaction.

 

 

The ears and the back of his neck still seemed a little red. But that could've just been the heat of the water on his skin.

 

 

Embarrassed or not, he scrubbed Yunho down with firm and confident strokes.

 

 

He was thorough, and treated Yunho’s body with minimal awkwardness, except for when the dried blood spread down Yunho’s chest required him to get a little closer and rub a little harder than his face showed he might have liked to. (Or maybe he did like it, and that was the problem, but Yunho didn’t want to make any assumptions.)

 

 

This task complete, he tossed the cloth over into the wash basket in the corner and grabbed another, turning away to rub himself down.

 

 

It occurred to Yunho that this was not only the first but possibly the only opportunity that he'd get to see Changmin naked, and regretted that he was not in quite the right space to enjoy the experience. Under any other circumstances, faced with a sight like that, he probably would have tried to Start Something, but at this very point in time, staying upright was more than task enough.

 

 

And, obviously, Starting Something would be stupid, because he'd already tried to have a once-off Something, to go no further, with this guy, and now he'd gone and saved his fucking life and was in his house _washing_ him.

 

 

He stole a few seconds for purely aesthetic appreciation, though, leaning back against the cool tiled wall to take in the caramel expanse of Changmin’s skin, and the satisfying structural elegance of the hard muscles beneath. Changmin’s body was a human weapon. It showed the signs of its power, but also of being well lived-in, and, finally, the small defects of simply being human: a bruise here; a scar there; a blemish under his right butt cheek.

 

 

All the same, he was a long way away from being average. Everything about him was slightly _more_ something than anything else Yunho had seen: legs longer; back stronger; shoulders wider; waist more tapered.

 

 

Naturally, Changmin glanced over his shoulder at him and caught him staring, which caused him to flush again and turn off the taps in an effort at decisive action.

 

 

‘There’re hangers in the wardrobe,’ Yunho supplied, lacking the energy to look away, ‘Clean clothes in the dresser. You can wear whatever. Should all fit.’

 

 

Wrapping himself in a towel, Changmin nodded and disappeared into the studio room. When he returned, he was dressed in a pair of Yunho’s shorts and one of his shirts, and carrying another combination over his arm.

 

 

He dumped the towel on top of the toilet and the clothes on top of that, and approached Yunho to dry him off with another clean towel before helping him dress. (It was strange to realise, but Yunho kind of enjoyed the way that Changmin ‘handled’ him.)

 

 

‘The couch is uncomfortable,’ said Yunho, ‘share the bed.’


End file.
